


Sherlock Lives

by AstroYuki



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Johnlock neutral, Post Reichenbach, Season 3, SherlockLives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 20:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstroYuki/pseuds/AstroYuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Sherlock's announcement to John plays out in my head. Set in a cafe (from early release photos, not the super posh one Sherlock wears his bow tie to)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Lives

It seemed to Sherlock as if he were moving in slow motion.

The gestures of the other people sitting in the restaurant, the motion of his own body as walked forward – everything seemed sluggish, winding down like dying clock, every second taking longer than it should before the slender second hand finally ticked past.

An effect of the adrenaline, he knew; his body gearing itself up for violence, another chase through frostbitten streets, another gunfight in the night, another case in a line that had been much too long and had stretched out to cover the past two years. _The Case of the Consulting Criminal._ The case that wouldn’t end.

His stupid body had no way of knowing that the blood pounding in his ear was for a completely benign reason. His body’s ridiculous nervous system could not distinguish between a physical threat and a purely nonphysical one, and his sympatho-adrenal response was running wild, increasing his heart rate, dilating his eyes, raising all his defenses to protect him from sitting down at a table across from his best friend.

Sherlock was surprised at himself, at the tremor he felt in his hands, the quick breath he couldn’t quite calm, that twisting _something_ in his gut. None of the others had been so hard. _Sentiment_. Him? No point lying to himself now. As much as he would like to deny it, Sherlock was nervous.

No, if he was being completely honest, Sherlock was scared.

He hadn’t meant for this to happen, he honestly hadn’t. He hadn’t even realized he had done something bad until he saw Mycroft. A certain extra stiffness in his manner, an extra bit of emphasis when he had commented mildly that solving this case had taken its toll on more than just Sherlock and that his miraculous resurrection might cost him more than Sherlock knew. Then Lestrade. Just that bewilderment, that blank, uncomprehending, utterly aghast expression. _You were alive. You were alive this whole time and you never said._ Then Mrs. Hudson…

The case hadn’t been _over._ How could he _stop_ before the case was _over_? Stop for food, stop for sleep, stop for anything? _You were gone_ _two years._ It had been that difficult and intricate a case, all the more reason why he had needed to take such extreme measures. _We thought you were dead._ Yes, obviously. So had Moriarty’s network. That was _why_ he’d had a chance of catching them.

This had seemed so clear, so obvious to Sherlock in his own head. There had been no other way. He needed to be dead so he could ensure others stayed alive.  Mycroft, at least, had understood this when Sherlock explained. Lestrade had just been angry. And then Mrs. Hudson had started crying…

He had made a mistake. He couldn’t understand how exactly, what specific rule he had broken, but Sherlock had made a terrible, irreversible, overpowering mistake. A mistake he couldn’t atone for, could hardly apologize for. Again.

He needed to get on with it. It was impossible to predict how John might react and delay was bad. Sherlock thought it was bad. The others had certainly focused on that. John would think it was bad, Sherlock was sure, though why exactly…something to do with rules, breaking the rules of etiquette concerning the asking for forgiveness, though just a few  extra minutes -? Mycroft hadn’t liked the few extra days, though after all these months, were they really so important – wait, in that case perhaps John would resent not being first?! Perhaps he should conceal – no, that wasn’t the thing to do either. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had definitely not liked -

Sherlock took the last steps necessary to bring him into John’s line of sight. Anything to have it over.

“John.”

Sherlock stood perfectly still, frozen as much by anxiety as by design by the table, carefully not encroaching on John’s space. Sherlock was apologizing so John got to say when it was okay for him to sit down – _if_ it was okay for him to sit down. He kept his hands in his pockets and faced John fully, not hiding, ignoring the impulse to shrink away, though it got abruptly and savagely stronger as he met John’s gaze, and he fought to keep his countenance blank, or at least, only appropriately tense. Sherlock wasn’t allowed to walk away from these uncomfortable sensations; he was apologizing. He was supposed to meet John’s anger straight on – that was what showed how sorry he was – so he paid careful attention to John’s face as it came into sight and tried to deduce which track he should take, what sentiment to start with, which part to say first.

John stared at him. Looked at him, ran his eyes over him, blinked at him – John _stared_ at him, right into Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock watched him, panicking slightly when he realized focusing all his attention on John was increasing his body’s stress response and time slowed down even more so Sherlock could see _everything_.

John’s pupils dilated, and his mouth fell open slightly, the better to accommodate the sudden spike in his breathing, in and out, in and out, in and out inandout - John’s body was confused, too. It thought Sherlock was a threat. Maybe the nervous system wasn’t so stupid after all - John’s hands clenched – subconsciously most likely – his cheeks and neck flushed red, his lips pulled back slightly from his teeth before his jaw snapped shut and his shoulders stiffened - textbook posture, Captain, well done – his head leaned forward slightly, direct eye contact, fully direct eye contact, back off, back off, don’t come near me, don’t touch me, don’t look at me, DON’T LOOK AT ME.

Textbook response for stress, and anger as well. Just as expected. Sherlock wavered slightly, just a touch light-headed. His own breathing pattern had quickened, too. Was he hyperventilating? He had anticipated this from John but he had failed to take into account his own body’s response to it. The tension hummed between them, making Sherlock’s body jittery. He was having a difficult time keeping to his place by the table. And while he had predicted John’s physical responses, he had somehow been unprepared for the sheer _fluidity_ attending them. Pumped full of natural chemicals, John’s body seemed to be roiling with activity, a thousand emotions flashing through him at once.

Then all at once John stilled. He absolutely ceased moving. A single steady exhale escaped him and John refused to move at all. He started to get up – but stopped. He leaned forward – but checked himself. He jerked his head away – but didn’t move. He shouted – but kept his mouth shut. A thousand tiny indicators of stress flickering all over John’s body, aborted before they were even begun, but somehow still present, still marking, still _screaming_ at Sherlock. Get away, get away, don’t even look at me, I can’t even look at you, I could just punch you, maybe I will, get away, get away, GET AWAY FROM ME.

Sherlock jerked his head down, breaking eye contact at last. So this was it, he thought breathlessly. This is what he had been afraid of. That nameless panic, that lurking dread, this is what he had secretly known all along.

John couldn’t even begin to forgive Sherlock’s mistake.

It really was something Sherlock couldn’t atone for it, couldn’t take it back or soften it. Just like all those times he had looked at someone and spoken his mind without a thought. Whether or not he had meant to insult them, whether he had meant to help them, to be kind, it did not matter. The words, once they left his lips, could not be undone. “Mistakes” that couldn’t be taken back, couldn’t be equivocated, couldn’t be packaged into any convenient social category. Mistakes that couldn’t be forgiven.

And his worst one yet.

Right. Right, that was fine, he had thought this might – that was good, first step – perfectly normal, trauma like this, John just needed space – Sherlock would just – John just needed  – he just

Sherlock turned away, stopped, and turned back.

“Right. I’ll erm…- I’ll just…” _leave you to it,_ Sherlock gestured helplessly.

He had wanted to just go, just leave immediately. That would’ve been the best thing, the kindest thing, for both of them. What else was there to say? He was supposed to tell John as quickly as possible he was alive and he had done that. He had needed to see if John was upset and he had seen that.

But that’s what people did, they _said_ obvious things out loud, so Sherlock spoke.

“Good night.”

Sherlock backed away a few steps without taking his eyes off his feet, and turned away again. Right, so, not Baker Street tonight obviously, maybe Mycroft-

“Where – the **_hell_ ** do you think you’re going?” John’s voice was measured, perfectly contained, but menacing enough to make Sherlock stop in his tracks.

Sherlock turned back halfway to look at him and was astonished to see John’s expression looking even more furious than before. Thrown completely off balance, Sherlock gestured vaguely towards the door.

“I was going to…- did you want me to stay?”

“Sit. Down.”

Sherlock walked back to the table, considering as he went _how_ exactly he should sit. Body language was critical to any conversation and he wanted to strike the right tone...  Matching John’s posture was definitely not the thing to do, but did he cross his legs as he usually did? Pretend everything was normal? Perch timidly on the edge to demonstrate uneasiness? Settle in to signal he would stay for as long as John wanted? He looked ridiculous with his hands still in his pockets, clutching his coat across him – why was he doing that, by the way? It wasn’t cold –  maybe a more submissive position, hunch the shoulders slightly? He caught John’s eye as he sat and winced mentally. Absurdly Sherlock felt that John had guessed what he had been thinking and was berating him for it.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably for a bit, rearranging his jacket and gloves as an excuse to look down, unable to decide the question of pose until he looked up again. John seemed to be taking up more than half of the table, though he was not leaning forward at all. Something in his shoulders, the flat expression of his face, the solidity of his body altogether seemed to condense the air of ominous silence that hung between them.

Sherlock yielded to his automatic impulse to lean back and was still. He ran his mind over his body posture: backward slant, chest angled slightly away, hands in pockets, angled arms in front of the chest, both feet planted on the floor, shoulder length apart, ready to spring away – was he still afraid? No, this wasn’t fear… Ah! Intimidation, that was the word. Sherlock was thoroughly intimidated.

Oh. That wasn’t better at all.

“So.” John said tightly. “You were just going to walk out.”

Sherlock waited. John didn’t add anything, though he clearly expected an answer.

Oh, no. Oh, this was bad. That was a bad sentence. Was it bad? Why was it bad? Sherlock hastily threw his mind back over his time with John, searching the mind palace as quickly as possible for clues. Was John angry? Was he sad? What to say? John’s eyes were bluntly confrontational, but his expression overall…he was smiling? The palace skidded to a halt on a relevant memory.

“ _I’ve disappointed you.”_

_“Yeah, that’s good. Good deduction.”_

A happy, incredulous smile put on to mask the sharper emotions he really felt. John’s expression was just like that now.

Oh, this _was_ bad.

Sherlock bit his lip and fought to keep any alarm off his face. He had no idea what to say, what John even meant by that, but you weren’t allowed to ask for help when you were apologizing. He would just have to try navigating this on his own.

“Yes…I thought after seeing me you seemed, erm… I thought, er, it seemed like it…would be better if – leaving. I thought leaving would be good, that it would better if I left. Gave you some space.”

“Space?”

“Yes, seeing me again would naturally be difficult so –“

“How much space, Sherlock? Two years’ worth?”

Now John leaned in across the table, the voice that had been horribly gentle abruptly angry and rough.

“ _Two years’ worth Sherlock?_ Is that how much space you thought I would need? After everything, after Brooks, and Moriarty, and that bloody rooftop you thought that after leaving me alone without a _bloody_ word for two years that you would just walk into my life, say hello, and _leave_ again, just like that, _just like that_ after all this _shit_ , you _heartless_ bastard.”

“John -”

John wasn’t sitting so still anymore. His breathing was ragged, and he shifted abruptly several times in his seat as he spoke, grabbed the table’s edge with his hand, released it, brought it to his mouth, dropped it again.

“So what was it, after all? Will you tell me? Will the great detective Sherlock Holmes reveal the mystery? Was it a trick? An experiment? Is that it? You jumped off that damn building while I watched as an experiment? And the two years after – what, did you need more data?”

“No, John! Honestly, it wasn’t, I swear. Just let me explain, please John, I _can_ explain, I promise.”

John _glared_ at him, absolutely bore Sherlock down with his eyes.

“..-Please.” Sherlock repeated, with just a hitch of hesitation, and John nodded very slightly. 

And so Sherlock went back over all of it again, the recital he knew so very well by now (he’d had a fair bit of practice after all). Moriarty’s final problem, the game, the snipers, the fall – and then the chase, the shattered threads Sherlock had traced back and severed completely, one by one, before they could slip away back into the shadows and breed another spider to weave them. John watched him impassively, never once looking away or changing his flat expression, but _watching_ , watching Sherlock so closely, and searching for something. From start to finish, as soon as Sherlock had explained himself off the roof, a certain spark of vigilance entered John’s eyes and he seemed to be poring over Sherlock’s explanation as soon as it was made, parsing it word by word, scrutinizing Sherlock’s tone and countenance for one thing.

And Sherlock had no idea what it was. He was just in the midst of reinforcing _why_ it hadn’t been safe to inform anyone of his survival – always a chance of continued surveillance and the probability of discovery for any piece of information always increased exponentially according to the number of people who were privy to it – when John interrupted in a quiet voice to say,

“Right. So have you seen Mrs. Hudson?”

Sherlock hesitated a moment. Should he say he came to John first? Or try to explain why he couldn’t? But even Sherlock didn’t understand that. Why hadn’t he spoken to John first? Certainly, he had _seen_ John first, but why had there been that sudden reluctance when he saw the lines on John’s brow, the slow step that very nearly called for a cane, the strain and fatigue in a face that shouldn’t have aged so much in just two short years?

“…Yes.”

“You’ve seen what you’ve done to her? What these past two years have done to her?”

“…”

“Sherlock.”

“I saw.”

“And what did you say to her, Sherlock?”

“I…I told her what I’ve told you, tried to explain why I had to –“

“Exactly what you’ve told me? What you told me just now?”

John was getting angry again, his face declaring that Sherlock had just confirmed it somehow, that whatever John had been looking for, Sherlock had failed to provide it. Sherlock’s felt utter, blank confusion building on his face – it seemed to be provoking John more.

“What you’ve just said – just now, that bloody ten minute speech, that’s what you gave her?! Two years, Sherlock, and you finally turn up and – _Christ_ Sherlock.”

This last was said in a growl, John shaking his head and making jerky gestures of supreme frustration with one hand.

“You could at least _apologize,_ Sherlock!!”  

Sherlock gaped at him openly, utterly bewildered and finally indignant.

“I _am_ apologizing!”

“No! No, you are not, Sherlock, and that is precisely it. The great Sherlock Holmes never apologizes, even when he gets it wrong – _especially_ when he gets it wrong. The bloody great detective is much too clever to say ‘I’m sorry’.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort and then stopped. He ran his mind back over his explanation – _network, threat, secrecy, necessary, regret, difficulties, miscalculation,_ – “sorry”? Had he used that word?

“But I didn’t…”

“The fall, that wasn’t your fault. Moriarty got a step ahead of you, that damn phone call, the jump - had to be done, fine. _Fine._ … But you were there, Sherlock. You were _at the funeral_ – your own bloody funeral. You saw Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, you saw _me_ , standing over your _bloody gravestone_ and _you walked away._ Whether it was smarter, whether it was rational, whether it was the safest bet – that isn’t the point, Sherlock.”

Oh. Oh, that was why. Sherlock blinked rapidly, suddenly unable to hold John’s gaze. _Sentiment._ Of course. Not rational, by definition the opposite of logical, but strong. They were _hurt_. Hurt in the blind way animals were, acting out the aggression that was the body’s natural response to pain. Sherlock was right, they all knew he was, weren’t even fighting it. Didn’t matter. A doctor’s scalpel hurt just as much as a shiv. The body could not help but shun either attack.

Could not help but resent the attacker.

A mistake that did not admit forgiveness.

Sherlock’s head bowed involuntarily and he took an unsteady breath.

“I..I’m, erm,… of course, I can only express – attempt to express…”

The pause lengthened. He honestly couldn’t find the words, couldn’t force himself to speak. 

“Sherlock.”

“….- - ……- - - ..I’m sorry.”

A thin moment of silence. Sherlock kept his eyes on the table, John kept his eyes on Sherlock.

And then John sighed.

John drew out the sound carefully in an attempt to calm himself, but his breath was ragged around the edges and hot with frustration. He stood up, tightly, keeping his arms carefully by his sides and curling his hands into what would’ve been a natural, relaxed position for them if not for the tension exaggerating the pose. He seemed to be picking his way through movements with great care. He faced away from the table, away from Sherlock, and seemed on the point of walking away.

“John.”

“Just – have you got a mobile?”

“What?”

“Your mobile, do you still have it?”

“No, it broke when…before.”

“Here, have this then. Have it!”

John took his own mobile out of a pocket and pushed at Sherlock without looking at him, gesturing impatiently when Sherlock hesitated.

“Keep that, you just, you keep that.” 


End file.
